


Failed Doom

by DameMarchDolcetto (AlectoErinye)



Series: The Inn at the Edge of Time [2]
Category: DragonFable (Video Games)
Genre: Failed Doom Challenge, Gen, Late Night Conversations, The Inn at the Edge of Time and its adverse effects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-20 11:40:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20674787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlectoErinye/pseuds/DameMarchDolcetto
Summary: In a nightmare, the Hero thinks she might have fought both Sepulchure and Caitiff at the same time. It was not pleasant, either to experience or to recount, but at least she has a friend to help her through it (even if Ash is rather unnerved in the process).





	Failed Doom

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse me while I pollute here as well. In my timezone, it was the day before September 2019's Friday the 13th. I intentionally posted it at that time for irony, though, it didn't pan out quite as expected. Well, enjoy, I hope.

It had been a rare, uneventful day at Falconreach—the fifth in a series of them, in fact. There'd been no problems aside from the mundane, and there'd been little for he or any of the town's many heroes to do. So when Ash goes downstairs from his room at the Serenity Inn at two in the morning for hot chocolate, he is certainly not expecting to see the Hero sitting alone by the fire, close enough to the flames that he half expected her hair to be set ablaze.

"'Lo, Ash," she says upon noticing him, managing to smile. It was a manic expression. There were dark circles around her eyes and her fingers were twitching around the rim of her mug. "Pretty night out."

The windows showed dark clouds, pouring rain, and violent winds threatening to rip trees out of their places, as had become increasingly common since the elemental dissonance.

"...Sure," he says cautiously, pulling up a chair to sit beside her—albeit at a safer distance from the fire. "It's nice to see you, Hero—are you sure that's safe?" He really does have to ask. "You might..." _Set yourself on fire. _"... Hurt yourself, sitting that close."

She actually laughed. "Nah, it's _fine._ I'm not too scared of fire. I mean, you know, I once paid a guy to set my hair on fire. For style." She smiled faintly at the memory, this one less manic and more wistful. He was not sure if that was an improvement, given the subject matter. "It looked pretty."

... it was _not_ an improvement.

"Besides," she continues. "I hate being cold; I'm always scared of going back _there." _Before he could process a proper way to answer _that,_ she lowered her head into her hugged knees. "Ash, I think I'm having nightmares."

He sputters on his hot chocolate. Normally, getting her to talk about _her_ problems was like pulling teeth. Through your nose. Without magic, with your hands tied behind your back and with only a pair of pliers for assistance.

"You... think you're having nightmares?"

"Yeah," she says. Her eyes looked sore and bloodshot. He hasn't seen her looking this bad since the Caitiff incident. "I mean... I'm pretty sure? It keeps slipping away from me but I just—"

"I get it, I get it," he says placatingly, trying to keep his voice calm and even as he mentally went over a list he made a while back, one he may or may not have copied from 'A Dummy's Guide to Therapy: Heroic Breakdown Edition' a good few years back. "What were you dreaming about?"

She lifts her mug to drink but it's close to empty. She lowers it with a sniff. "Caitiff. And Sepulchure. At the same damn time."

Now, he's really concerned. She almost never swore. Not even mildly.

"What happened?" He asks, with as much sympathy as he can muster at two in the morning on very little sleep.

She swallows. "We were fighting, Caitiff and Sepulchure and me. Well, they were both fighting _against _me. And... it was a _nightmare. _I mean... literally, it was a nightmare. Caitiff, I dealt with eventually but _Sepulchure..."_

She moves to look him in the eye so suddenly, he half expected to hear a snap, her eyes unblinking as they bored into his.

"Ash," she says urgently. "If I stab you in the eye, _right now, _will you die?"

He blinks. "Um... yes?"

She nods, having expected that very obvious answer. "If I stab _Gaelan_ in the eye, would he die?"

"I would!" the Innkeeper calls out from his place by the counter with a cheery smile, voice all sunshine despite the time. "So, please do not!"

"Don't give me a reason to and I won't!" she calls back with equal cheer, an automatic smile on her face as she turned to face Gaelan's direction, managing to inject the mildly threatening language with what sounded like genuine sincerity, before she went back to looking at him, smile dropping, expression turning downright distraught. "Sepulchure though—why doesn't _he?!"_

Her voice breaks and she has to take a deep, shuddering breath before she can continue, and when she does, it's with wide, terrified eyes.

"He just wouldn't. _Die._ I stab him over and over and over _and over and over_—but he just. Won't._ Die."_ She drains her mug in one go. The hot chocolate left a mustache but she didn't seem to notice. "I backstab him right in the damn neck. No sell. I throw the knife in his eye, he barely flinches. I unleash full frickin' _Elemental Unity." _She slams the mug down at the last word for emphasis. The impact is hard enough that the handle breaks off, leaving the emptied mug standing alone and cracked on the table. "Still standing. Everything I had and he was still _standing._"

"That... sounds rough," he says sympathetically. He takes the empty mug-turned-cup away before she could break it further. "Do you want another drink? My treat."

"Th-that's a good idea," she says, head bobbing in rapid nods. She has to swallow first but her thankful smile looks the same as it's always looked and it's a relief to see. "Hey, Gaelan?" she calls out to the innkeeper. "Do you have any whiskey?"

Ash blinks. "I didn't mean—"

"Of course," Gaelan calls back cheerily. "What kind would you like?"

She doesn't even hesitate. "Fireball Sinnomen. Strongest you've got. Please," she adds belatedly. "And thank you."

"—that kind of drink..." he finishes weakly, just as Gaelan walked over and passed her a bottle, all with his usual smile. "Okay, that... works, I guess. I didn't... know you drank, though."

She hugs the bottle to her chest. While still sitting dangerously close to the fire, she kept on hugging a bottle of apparently strong alcohol to her chest. "Fighting with a hangover is terrible," she mumbles, eyes closed, resting her chin on the bottle cap. "S'why I don't drink. Much."

Without so much as opening her eyes, she then rips off the cap with her teeth, letting it fall with a "_clink!" _onto the floor "But hangover's better than nightmares," she says in conclusion. She inclines her head to him in a faint semblance of a bow, dangling the bottle precariously by the neck in such a way that it was backlit by the flames. "Down the hatch."

She pours the contents into a glass she'd pulled out from apparently nowhere then drains it in one shot. "That's good," she acknowledges, with a satisfied sigh. She pulls out another glass from apparently nowhere. "Want some?"

"No, thank you," he says as politely as could be. "Um... so, what were you saying about Sepulchure?"

He _swears_ he sees her eyes flash lilac. "That he's a _bastard!_ Who just wouldn't _die _like any sane person should!" she snaps, and the vehemence in her voice, coupled with the words themselves... well, stuns him, really. It must've shown on his face because she droops back after a second passes, expression remorseful as she downed a second glass. "Sorry," she says lamely. "I just—"

"—It's _fine,_" he cuts in. Then, slowly, as reassuringly as he could manage. "Hero, it was just a dream. You didn't really fight Sepulchure and Caitiff at the same time."

They'd know if she did. If that ever actually happened, there would be more craters than there would be town right now, that was absolutely guaranteed at the very least.

Her eyes looked dead. "It _feels_ like I did," she whispers. "I see... I see flashes of it every time I close my eyes. Me, stabbing him over and over and over—just, why won't he _die?!"_

The last word comes out half a sob. With shaking hands, she pours out yet another glass of whiskey and downs it in one go. "Usually, if I wanted to, you wouldn't even see me. It would just_—shk!_ Dagger in your throat and you're _dead._ But _him..."_

Then she stares at him. As in, she focuses on him with an intensity that makes him slightly uncomfortable, as if she were trying to make out whatever thoughts were running under his skull.

As a Cryptic, he suddenly thinks to himself, she actually could be doing that.

The Hero's next words do nothing to allay his discomfort.

"You know, just by looking at you, I can think of forty-six different ways on how to kill you right here, right now," she tells him, wild-eyed and unsmiling, the words no boast but a statement, as if she were telling him "2+2=4". "And that's without my daggers. I can name six different ways on how to kill you with just my hands. No—with just _one_ hand and no telekinesis."

"... Like how?" he has to ask, equal parts bewildered and disturbed. "How could you kill me with one hand, barehanded?"

Her gaze bores into him and, yeah, he _definitely_ feels uncomfortable. "I jab you in the throat then break your neck with my legs while you're choking on the floor. I'm very flexible," she adds, not minding how he was now currently slowly backing away, his expression horrified. "I can do that. I could also strangle you to death with my legs but that would take longer. Inefficient."

"I..." Words failed him for a moment. "I don't... I'd think I wouldn't be downed for long enough for you to do that just from a punch to the throat."

"Oh, no, as long as I do it properly, you'd definitely be downed for _way_ more than long enough," she says, regaining a trace of her former self-assurance. "One proper spear-hand and you'd be puking your guts out. All over your shoes. Breaking your neck would be child's play."

Her tone was so matter-of-fact, he's more than a little disconcerted. He is... _unnerved, _to say the least. "That's... a little scary, coming from you," he has to admit.

"Nothing personal, Ash," she says distractedly. "You know I'd never actually do that. Unless you turn evil. Then you'd be fair game. Completely. I would stab you in your sleep without batting an eye. Though I'd cry at your funeral."

He suppresses a twitch. "That's... good to know."

"Him though... no matter what I try, he just won't _die..." _her voice breaks and she bites her lip. When she looks up at him, however, it's with a hint of her usual self, a trace of her usual remorse in her eyes. "I... I'm s-sorry you have to see me like this," she says, trying to smile. "It's been a... rough night."

"It's fine," he tells her again. "We all have them. Here. This might help."

It's been a long while since he's done this, she's been spending the weekends away from Falconreach ever since... well, the whole situation with her equipment and her memories started, but when he hands her a chocolate eclair, his mother's recipe and what would've been his midnight snack, he's rewarded with the first genuine-sounding laugh he's heard from her all day.

"When did you have this dream?" he asks once she finishes the pastry. "Have you... is it a recurring thing?"

She shakes her head. "I... think tonight's the first time I've had it. When I woke up at midnight earlier, it was..." she winces, and closes her eyes. "It wasn't... well, It wasn't pleasant. I tried to go back to sleep at first but it just... happened again and in the dream I... I attacked him hundreds and _hundreds _of times but, no matter what, he just... kept _surviving. _And—you know me, Ash, I can dodge for days. If I wanted to, you could be standing right next to me, holding a knife at my throat and you still wouldn't be able to kill me if you tried, but, he just kept going on and... I get tired, too, you know, and—"

"I think I understand," he cuts in sympathetically. "That must've been awful."

"It was a nightmare," she repeats. "I just felt so useless. I know I'm good at fighting," she says, slumping against her seat. "And I mean, _really_ good. It's the only thing I'm good at so it only makes sense—but against him, it was just..." She takes a deep draught from her glass, eyes slipping closed. "Like trying to kill a dragon by giving it papercuts. It just keeps going on and on and then I start... then I start slipping up. He gets in a couple of hits—okay, I can take them, but then he gets more and more in and it's getting harder to defend and attack and it feels..."

"It feels...?" he prompts, as gently as he could manage. "What did it feel like?"

"A-and it feels like..." She let her forehead fall onto her palm, tugging at her hairline with her fingers. "It feels like if I let the fight go on long enough, he'll just kill me in one hit. And I can't do that, if I die, I won't be able to save anyone and people will get hurt and die and how could I let that happen _again?!"_ The last word comes out as a breathless scream and there's such a terror in her eyes that, even with all of his preparations, all of his reading material, he can't quite muster up the right words to say.

"C-calm down," he tries. "It wasn't your fault, the first time and—"

"And I don't how to get these nightmares to _stop!" _Her expression became more manic and he didn't think she was quite hearing him anymore. "This isn't like a-a magic nightmare by some stupid squid or something where I can just stab something and be done with it, this is just a nightmare-nightmare and I just have to live with it until it goes the _hell_ away."

"I know it's hard, Hero, but—"

"—Maybe I can?"

He stares. "What."

Her eyes were wide. "Ash," she says his name with such urgency that part of him wants to stand at attention. "Can you stab a nightmare?"

He licks his lips nervously as he tries to meet her once again very painfully intense gaze. "I... don't think so?"

"Cysero might have something I could use," she mumbles, finally dropping her gaze. "Maybe."

"... I'd recommend just getting some real sleep," he finally manages. When she looks at him, he manages a friendly and (he hoped) _comforting _smile. "You... well, you look pretty awful. When was the last time you slept properly?"

She shrugs. "I dunno. S'not like sleep's ever been a regular thing for me," she mumbles. "A Hero's work is never done and all."

"Which is why you've been having nightmares," he says in a sage tone. "You're tired, you're stressed, and you haven't been sleeping right. Which is why you should really... go on up and get some rest. Maybe take a nice, strong sleeping potion to help with the nightmares. I can cover for you tomorrow," he adds, on a stroke of inspiration. "It's almost the weekend, anyway."

"That's usually when I'm at my busiest," she says, almost a sigh. She's smiling, however. "I'll try," she says. "Can't hurt. I think I might have some sleeping potion in my room somewhere..."

"Good," he says, relieved. "I'll—would you like me to help you up to your room?" he asks, seeing her wobble as she stands, alcohol still in her hands.

She smiles at him as he helps her to her feet and once she does, her feet lift a good few inches off of the ground, her Cryptic telekinesis as steady as it always was. "It's fine. I can manage. So I guess, for tomorrow, I'll just... sleep in for a bit and, if there's an emergency, you can just bang on my door. I swear I'll come running."

"Noted," he says, though, in his mind, he's swearing to let her have the whole day, at least, to rest. "Try not to come running in your pajamas, though," he adds, in a more teasing tone.

She smirks. "No need to worry about that ever happening. I always sleep in my armor. What?" she says when he looks at her strangely. "How else am I supposed to fight off people trying to kill me in my sleep?" Before he can even start to think of a proper response to that, she continues: "I mean, I suppose I could probably fight them off barehanded but that's tempting fate and I try not to do that unless I'm in full gear."

He... does not know how to respond to that. "That's er... sensible."

"I try to be," she says distractedly. "Though I'll admit, I usually fail in that."

"I don't think you're _that _bad," he protests, though she only grins.

_"Sure,"_ she says, sounding like herself for the first time since they'd started the conversation, her smile sunny. "'Night, Ash. And... thank you."

* * *

-omake (?)

It is a full two days after that late-night conversation when he finally notices it. A tiny, swirling mass of dark energy trailing by her feet, its flames the very color of doom. It stood in stark contrast to the sunshine of the beautiful new morning and it seemed to cling to her boots as it trailed after her, though its flames strangely left no marks on her Cryptic's garb.

"Hero," he whispers, hand dropping to the hilt of his Princess' sword. "There's something by your feet..."

"Hm? Oh, that?" In contrast, she looked unconcerned. "It's just a pet," she says airily. "My dragon's been clamoring for some me-time so I've decided to lug this guy along, for now. His name's Doom Figmini. Cute, right?"

"Sure," he says cautiously. His hand remained where it was on his sword. "Where did you get it?"

This pet, was it part of it? Her amnesia-inducing equipment? Hell, did the _nightmare_ have anything to do with this thing? Was her equipment giving her _nightmares_ along _with _the amnesia now?!

She only yawns, stretches. "M'really sorry, Ash, but I'm too sleepy to think right now," she says tiredly. In the light of the morning sun, the bags under her eyes remained apparent, even after two nights of good sleep. "I'll tell you once I remember, 'kay? Breakfast first, I'm starved."

Or maybe it was just because it was really early in the morning and she still hadn't had coffee.

It could also just be that, too.

**Author's Note:**

> All feedback's appreciated and, please, have a nice day.


End file.
